What Bothers Me
by Pepper Imp
Summary: What bothers me is that I have realized that I look at you the same way you look at him.


Title: What Bothers Me  
Author: Aspen (allsingingcrap@hotmail.com)  
Pairing: Ron/Ginny  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: ficlet, Ron POV, incest hints  
Notes: Ron and his earometer. Again, one of my attempts to get to know Ron a little better. All these months and he and his simplicity still tend to elude me.  
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them; I just own their leashes.  
  
  
  
You don't know this, of course, but I spent all night long watching you dance in his arms. I doubt my ears have ever been so red. Let me tell you this: he's lucky he was a gent about it and never let those chubby, clumsy hands of his slide from around your waist, because if he had, I'd be off my arse and onto his so fast he'd have thought a bludger hit him.

I wish I understood. Are you just being nice, Ginny? Because last I checked, you didn't make a habit out of hanging out with Neville Longbottom. He's not exactly stimulating conversation, is he? I saw the way he was trodding on your slippers. Your nice, pretty, _expensive_ slippers, that you _never_ wear unless it's a very special occasion, like when we all went to the Embassy in Egypt with Bill. The little bows on them were crushed under his big dumb stupid feet and I could not stop staring at him hurting you. 

My ears burn just thinking about it. 

A'course, lots of things concerning you make my ears burn. For instance, when you squeal "Ron!" like you're completely horrified that I want to crack my fist into Malfoy's stupid aristocratic jaw, and it has that shrill quality about it, and I burn in response to it... in rage... and sometimes, _sometimes_, in shame. I hate disappointing you. It's almost as bad as disappointing Mum, only for some reason, I don't feel like I'm being scolded... I just feel really rotten that you would think badly of me. I know I've got nothing on you when it comes to being nice, but if you can stand up to that stupid git for Harry, can't I at least bloody his nose or knock out a fang for you? 

Oh, and when you look up from doing your homework in the common room and you tuck your little love-locks that curl out from your braids behind your ear, dart looks around the room to see if Harry, Hermione, and I are there, and sigh quietly before returning to your work. That, too. I like to watch you. I guess it's a big brother thing. It makes me warm, even on the chilly days where my breath hangs in front of me, I feel as if I'm sitting next to a warm hearth, watching the way you move, knowing that you are safe and in my sight. Yes, I could heat the whole of Hogwarts with my ears, just watching you write down a bunch of words with your quill, your snow white dove feather quill that Percy gave you for Christmas last year. 

I've noticed that it's not just me, it's a lot of blokes looking at you lately. I don't blame them, or anything, Gin - I know you're a grown-up girl - but that is just _not on_. The way that mouse Colin Creevey chats you up at the table, the way that little second year with the gigantic specs and spots looks so gratefully at you when you give him tips on how to survive in Potions, what is the deal?! I wouldn't trust them farther than I could hex them, you know. I know what they're thinking. I know what they'd like to do, and it doesn't involve a friendly game of Exploding Snap. And all those times I catch you looking at Harry, with that colour on your cheeks and that fearful little sparkle of hope in your eye. Why do you have to settle for it, Gin? Why? Shouldn't you like a fellow who looks back at you? One who really cares about you, and doesn't think you're silly when you giggle - okay, well, a mite silly - and who sees you for more than my little sister - but who still knows that you are _my_ little sister and he'd better not try anything funny! 

What bothers me is that I have realized that I look at you the same way you look at him. 

I've tried not to be like those other boys, tried not to notice you coming into your own like you are. But all I do is notice. Notice that sometimes, you say really funny things. Notice that your hands have changed, how they no longer look like the hands of a child, but a woman, or an almost-woman. Notice how sweet you looked in your dress robes and your slippers, with your hair done up and your eyelashes down. 

I wish I understood. 

I wish my stupid ears wouldn't burn. 

You don't know this, of course. 

But I spent all night long watching you dance. 

In _his_ arms. 

And I doubt my ears have ever been so red.   
  
  
  
- Fin  
  



End file.
